


Even In Death

by EliseHart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Creepy, Disturbing Themes, Gross, M/M, disturbing behavior, immoral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:44:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliseHart/pseuds/EliseHart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on Even In Death by Evanescence.  John returns to 221B shortly after Sherlock's funeral and finds Sherlock alive and well.  John decides to stay, promising to keep this a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even In Death

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This fanfiction crosses my moral boundaries. If you have a weak stomach or are easily offended by the grotesque things some people degrade themselves in doing, please refrain from reading this story. Honestly, I'm appalled that I've written it at all, I never meant for it to turn out the way that it did. So I completely understand if you don't like it. If this warning intrigues you, then by all means, enjoy.

“So, you heard me,” John said aloud to the supposed-to-be empty flat. Silence answered his statement. “I said, ‘Don’t be dead’ and here you are.” A pale figure turned and faced him, dressed in black and blue with a splash of red coating his face and hair. John simply smiled at the man and walked to the kitchen to make tea for himself and his flatmate; a man thought to be dead by the whole of England. It had been a day since Sherlock’s funeral and John had a strange urge to return to their beloved flat. Much to his surprise, he walked in to find Sherlock, himself, inside. “Have you been waiting here since yesterday?”

The detective stared angrily at the doctor, “If you wanted me here, you should have verified your wish being granted sooner. I’ve been incredibly bored here; almost gave up on you.”

John’s smile faded as he added sarcastically, “Oh, sorry for being too much of an inconvenience for the one who jumped off of a building for no fucking reason! I bet you were just showing off your ability to out-smart the world, weren’t you? Fucking bastard.”

Without changing his expression, Sherlock countered, “I have my reasons, and that certainly isn’t one of them. Someday I might tell you the real reason, but it’s too dangerous for the time being.”

Hearing Sherlock’s reply, John began to cool down a little bit. He didn’t want this reunion to turn into an argument so he nodded in acceptance and offered Sherlock a cup of tea. He accepted so John made them both a mug.

When the kettle had boiled and the tea had been poured, John handed Sherlock a cup. His hand brushed the detective’s, making him shiver with its coldness. “Well, in the meantime, are there any new cases you’re interested in? Anything to keep you from getting too bored that I can help with?”

Sherlock shot a look of seriousness at his flatmate and stated, “I won’t be taking any new cases for a long time, John.”

“No cases? Have you lost your mind,” John asked, completely perplexed by the change in Sherlock’s mindset. Usually, his work was all that really mattered to  
Sherlock, and it was strange to see him completely give that up, at least for the time being.

“I can’t let anyone know I’m still alive. And neither can you,” he insisted.

John inquired, “How do you expect me to keep this a secret?”

"I’m sure you can pull it off,” Sherlock said, changing his tone. He glided towards John in a strangely graceful way, “You’ve kept many things a secret.”

John’s hands became slick with sweat as his heart began to race. He hated when Sherlock gave him this reaction, especially with something as simple as a look or the sound of his voice. As his own voice cracked, John cleared his throat and naively asked, “Like what?”

Sherlock’s cold hand slid into John’s, pulling him closer until the doctor could smell the faint scent of decay, rot, and dirt. His lips brushed against John’s, smearing a thin layer of sticky blood on them, “You know exactly what.”

At first, John wanted nothing more than to pull Sherlock closer, kissing him passionately until their mouths exchanged the metallic taste of blood, the saltiness of sweat, and the sweetness of their mixed saliva. But he regained control of his senses and tried to push the detective away, doubting the man’s advances as honest. “No, I know you, Sherlock. You don’t feel things like this; you want something from me, I’m not stupid. Stop being a child, just ask me.”

Sighing with irritation---but also a hint of lust; causing his voice to go hoarse, nearly growling---Sherlock pulled John back tighter, “Do you honestly think that? What else could I want other than my blogger?” The man leaned in to prove his claim when the buzzer rang.

Flushed red, John backed away as Sherlock ran to his bedroom closet. “I’ll stay here, don’t let them find me,” he whispered. The doctor hurried back to the stairs, trying to hide a Sherlock-induced hard on; which he had done an embarrassing amount of times.

After not answering the door after a number of rings, John’s guest let herself in; Mrs. Hudson. The old woman saw John at the top of the stairway and asked, “How are you handling yourself, dear?”

Finding her choice of words inappropriately amusing for the moment, John had a hard time disguising his emotions to a more morose feel, “I’m doing as well as should be expected. Though I feel like it’s time to come back home.” He paused and Mrs. Hudson stared at him blankly. “The day or two away gave me room to think and reflect; I just feel like Sherlock would have wanted me to stay here.”

Blinking, the shocked landlady took a moment to collect her thoughts before replying, “Well, I’m happy for you, dear. I’m also glad I don’t have to empty and rent this space all over again. Though, I would think you’d need more time. Are you sure you’re alright?”

John forced his smile into a grimace and nodded, “Yes, Mrs. Hudson. It’s all fine. Could I just, um, have some time alone here? If you don’t mind.”

Feeling sorry for him, Mrs. Hudson answered, “Of course, just call me if you need me.”

He thanked her as she closed the door. Almost as soon as she left, John heard music fill the flat. A wave of panic washed over him as he rushed into Sherlock’s bedroom to find the detective carelessly playing familiar tunes on his violin. “What the hell does the word ‘secret’ mean to you?!” he hissed.

Sherlock stopped playing for a moment to reassure John that his music would not raise any suspicion before continuing the melody. The doctor grabbed the violin in fear, calling his friend a moron for thinking violin music coming from the flat of a dead violinist could not be constituted as “unusual” and further investigated.

The detective simply glared at him with smoldering eyes, took back what was his, and continued to play. John sighed and then gave in, “Fine. When they find you and your plan is ruined, it’ll be your fault, not mine.”

But much to his surprise, no one questioned the violin music. It was as if Sherlock had sound-proofed the flat in order to conceal the noise. When John asked about it, his friend simply smiled, which John took as a yes. Days passed by, filled with giggling, catching up on the latest events, and getting over the hurt both men had experienced in their separation. John barely left the flat other than to pick up a newspaper every other day and Sherlock attempted to amuse himself by deducing actors and characters off of TV programs.

Besides the usual on goings of their lives, the two men wanted to expand their relationship passed the casual eye-sex and subtext that they usually put up with; which included John living out his sexual-fantasies with the detective. He often found himself recalling certain moments of it during the day and smiled shyly at the thoughts. Sherlock was as fantastic in bed as John felt he was at solving crimes, which made him, by far, the best John had ever had. And when they weren’t talking or snogging, the pair snuggled up together while they watched crap telly in the evenings.

In fact, everything seemed to be going perfectly until Lestrade visited, frantic and overcome with weariness. “Sherlock’s gone missing.”

John felt confused by the statement and sprinkled his response with a lie, “What do you mean? Sherlock is dead; he should be in his grave.”

Catching his breath, Lestrade answered, “I went to visit him, for sentimental reasons. But when I got there, I noticed that the ground looked like it had been disturbed recently. So, I got a team together to check everything out and make sure it wasn’t just my imagination; his coffin was empty!”

“Who would do something like that?” John inquired, trying not to look so suspicious and more distressed and hurt by the fact. He knew Sherlock was hiding one room away, and silently cursed him for not putting some sort of realistic dummy in as a replacement.

“Some twisted kid trying to play a joke on good people who don’t deserve it, probably. Either that or the coffin was never full.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a possibility that he may be out there somewhere. We had a closed-coffin funeral, so it’s possible that he may have given us the slip.”

Trying not to panic, John replied, “I watched him jump, Greg. There is no way he could have pulled-off something like that. The very idea is ridiculous and absurd. Just focus on catching the rat-bastard that did this.”

Lestrade nodded, “Yeah, you’re right. We’re investigating the whole situation now; you’re welcome to join us if you feel up to it.”

“I might.”

“Good,” he replied. Suddenly, his nose crinkled, “My God, what is that stench?”

Embarrassed, John realized he hadn’t taken care of the flat as much for the whole week he was there; leaving it smelling like old socks and rotting garbage. He quickly apologized and gave himself a mental note to remember to clean up a bit later, sending Lestrade on his way.

As soon as the inspector exited the flat, Sherlock climbed out of his hiding place and returned to the sofa. When John joined him, wrapping his arms around his lover, Sherlock rejected his advance and stared forward as if thinking. “He’s onto me, John. We have to be more careful.”

“Does this mean no more violin music?” John inserted teasingly.

“Yes, but we also need to keep an eye out for anyone who visits too often. We need to seclude ourselves even more than before. You can’t go out every other day for the paper, just search for new stories online,” Sherlock ordered.

John agreed to the new terms, even if it meant never leaving the flat. Why would he need to anyway if Sherlock was there with him?

***

After a month, John started to notice Sherlock looking more and more sickly. His skin grew thinner and paler by the day; his bones began to protrude to a dangerous extent; and he was always close to freezing in his body temperature. John suspected it was some form of cancer after he ruled out malnutrition, and begged the detective to give up the secrecy and go to a hospital.

Of course, Sherlock denied his proposal, “I can’t see any other doctor but you, John. We have to keep this a secret.”

“Mrs. Hudson is already getting suspicious about why I haven’t let anyone in or out of this flat. Besides that, if I don’t get you some help soon, you could...,” his voice grew soft. He paused, and then shook his head, “No, I’m not losing you again.”

Sherlock looked up at John and offered him a weak smile, “I’ll be fine, don’t be afraid. And if the worst should happen, just remember that even in death, I’ll always be here with you. Do you understand?”

With tear-filled eyes, John nodded.

Over the course of a few days, Sherlock’s condition had worsened exponentially. Gashes had formed in his skin when he would try to move; his skin stretched too far on his long limbs. Day after day, John wept for him, insisting he had to see a doctor and pleaded for permission to call for help. But, through cracking lips that oozed black liquid, Sherlock’s responses were always the same, “Don’t worry, I don’t feel anything. I won’t leave you, John. I know you’re doing the best that you can for me and I appreciate it greatly, but you have to keep me a secret.”

They no longer watched crap telly together or any other strenuous activities that they once enjoyed. Instead, Sherlock would sit in his closet---the two men too paranoid to move him elsewhere---and John would read him news articles that he found online while bringing him soup and herbal teas to drink. John couldn’t understand why Sherlock let himself deteriorate so badly and it tore him apart inside to watch the man he loved fade away so slowly. His concern got the best of him one day that when Mrs. Hudson demanded to be let in, John ignored Sherlock’s pleas and opened the door.

He hadn’t realized the staleness of the air they were breathing until the fresh air slapped him in the face, shocking and chilling him to the bone. Mrs. Hudson stared at Dr. Watson with wide eyes, filled with fear and concern. The man before her wore filthy clothes that reeked of a stench she couldn’t even identify; his hair had grown long and ragged, matted together with grease and dirt; his eyes were blood-shot and wild. Overall, he frightened her to death, making it extraordinarily difficult for her to choke back her scream.

The oblivious doctor saw tears in the woman’s eyes and asked her what was wrong and if she needed to sit down and have some tea. When she finally found the ability to move again, she shook her head and turned to the side, calling for a strange man to enter 221B. “Whoa, who the hell is that?”

Mrs. Hudson whimpered, “A fumigator. I couldn’t stand the smell anymore, John. It’s horrid; I don’t know how you live up there. You need to get out of that flat; I should have never let you stay.”

John protested, “No, I understand. There’s a secret I’ve been keeping but I can’t risk not telling any longer. When I returned, Sherlock returned with me. He’s not dead, but he’s very sick and I have to get him to a hospital. I’ve been meaning to clean up the flat, but I’ve been too busy caring for him. I swear I’ll pay for any expense I’ve caused.”

Before Mrs. Hudson could question John about Sherlock, the two friends heard a cry come from upstairs. The fumigator ran down the steps and pulled the poor landlady away from John, yelling, “Call the police! Stay away from that psychopath!”

John shook his head, “No, don’t! I know that it looks like Sherlock is being devoid of medical attention, but I have been trying to keep him alive. He didn’t want me to tell you or anyone, but I need to get him to a hospital right now!”

The fumigator shook his head violently, “I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, but don’t listen to him and call the police. I just found a fucking, half-decomposed, maggot-filled corpse in his closet!”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to send me feedback! Any form of criticism is allowed and appreciated.


End file.
